Assassin's Scuffle
(This story was written by Chayton and posted on the Utopia Skye forums on August 3 and 9, 2005. It takes place after Weary Contemplations.) ---- With each toss of his beloved dagger, Callan marveled at the gleam Westfall's sunlight granted the blade. He gave a faint smirk as he flicked it up, watching the beautiful weapon spin for a moment, before it fell harmlessly into his hand once more. Or perhaps 'harmlessly' was not the best word for it. With a blade in his hand, Callan Thead was certainly nothing to be scoffed at. But he returned the dagger to his boot sheath easily enough, hands going to his dual Cruel Barbs. Ah, how he loved those weapons. Along with all the Defias gear he had taken off of his finished rivals. In the eyes of Mathias Shaw, the assassin despised the gear, often tearing off the mask with disgust when he was near the SI:7 leader. But Callan was also a good actor. He donned the crimson mask with amusement each time he padded out of Stormwind's gates, his icy blue eyes dancing in amusement. And the cruel barbs flowed in his talented and experienced hands as though they were their own, separate entities. A pair of vipers, each able to strike and sting at a foe independently. The assassin took great pride in his use of them... And he always had. Especially when the tip of his blade had taken the life of Harlingston's great king, Allen Altair. It had been the kill that earned him his name all over the overseas countries. And it had all been so simple... A bit of poison, milked from the fangs of a black mamba, tipped onto his sword. An infiltration of a royal ball. He danced his way right over to the cheerful king--the poor man had hardly realized what had hit him. And the guards had little chance of snatching the talented assassin before he slid from their grasp, trickling through their fingers like water. Beautiful, in Callan's mind. But now he was being hunted for it. And he knew it. Prince Straife, Allen's son, had already struck out at him for it, had followed him across the continents. But of course, when one's country has been overrun, he rarely pauses to consider the best course of action. Callan had destroyed him just as easily as he had his father. Of course, Straife had his friends. His most talented general, Lord Robalt de Sair, had also survived Harlingston's downfall. He had made his own appearance in Elwynn not long after Straife's death. And he had been tracking Callan far more talentedly than the out-of-practice prince. In fact, the night elf was just what the assassin found himself waiting for now. As usual, his timing was not far off. He tossed aside a few stray locks of pale blonde hair, glancing up to catch the tapered form approaching him from Sentinel Hill. The assassin gave a grim smile, sliding one Barb from its scabbard in order to rest its point against the dirt, leaning on it casually. He had known Robalt well. Had even attempted to destroy the man a few times. Yet the lord of Sair was not so easily defeated; he had not been Harlingston's lead general for no reason, after all. Bright, iridescent sapphire eyes met icy blue ones as Robalt stalked up to Callan, not having expected to find his quarry standing in the middle of the well-beaten path. The night elf gave a bitter smile as he leaned against the nearby fence to regard his enemy. Callan took his own chance to glance over the chain-clad gentleman, a smirk hanging on his lips as always. Robalt's long, silken hair fell about his gentle face, a few whisps shifting in the stale wind. He had the build of an athelete, with broad shoulders--yet these tapered to a lean waist. There, upon his left hip, was his trusted rapier as always. The only true armor he wore was a chain shirt--the rest was all the silks of a noble, allowing for freedom of movement. For being such a well-reputed general, the man certainly seemed more of a soft gentleman than a seasoned fighter. But Callan had seen the astoundingly graceful man in battle before, and held a great respect for his skill. Where Callan was a viper, striking quickly and effectively, Robalt was the panther, with sleek and powerful muscle. A regalness, and yet a confidence which belied his ability to tear apart his foes without a second thought. "Well well. You've changed a bit since I last saw you, Callan," he drawled, his smooth voice carrying a hint of distaste. Callan couldn't help but give a wry grin. Ah, yes, he remembered that voice. That very same sound had driven the coldest of court ladies to practically fall apart around the lord, much to the nettle of their husbands. "Now," he continued, "you carry the markings of a Defias here. Your guild back in Dyosin would have an absolute fit..." "Of course," Callan replied with an faint, twisted grin. "But then again, my guild also has every capability of wiping out the Defias without a second thought, had they the set of mind to do it. Perhaps if it wasn't such a long journey," he chuckled, gaze slipping over Robalt. He knew the talk would not last long. The two had sized each other up enough. But Callan also enjoyed a battle of wits perhaps just as much as a battle of blades. "On with it then, Sair," he sighed, straightening and pulling his other sword from its scabbard. "We both know what you're here for. You think Harlingston's nonexistant throne is in danger on my behalf. I'm a threat. Now... let's see how much we have improved..." Robalt eyed the assassin with a grim smile, his rapier sliding from its sheath. He gave a brief nod, as courteous a beginning as the warrior could manage for his hated enemy. He knew Callan well, knew that the assassin was just as dangerous in direct combat as he was with a sly hit from the shadows. Before he could contemplate this more, however, Callan suddenly kicked up the dust from Westfall's road, directly into his opponent's eyes. Robalt cursed and stumbled back a step, his free hand coming to his eyes. The assassin gave a faint smirk, his blade darting for the elf's leg, hoping to cripple him early. Robalt was not fooled, however. He had seen the assassin's movement just before the dust had struck him, and slid his rapier in to block it; he could only hope that it was not a feignt. He gave a satisfied smile, however, at the clang of metal that followed his parry. He managed to swipe the dirt from his reddened eyes, and then the two's battle truly began. They moved with perhaps more agility and dexterity than any could have dreamed of, Callan's blades working hard against Robalt. The warrior was always ready with a parry or a dodge, however, only once hearing the grate of sword against his mail with a wince--that would leave a bruise. He allowed the assassin to take offense for a while, taking the chance to get into the rhythm of battle. He was a bit handicapped, however, facing two weapons with his single rapier. The warrior sighed, deciding to solve this complication. With a deft flick of his wrist, one of Callan's blades went flying over the warrior's shoulder, landing in the dust several yards away. The assassin cursed, having underestimated the general, and slid the dagger from his boot easily enough. When he returned his attention to Robalt, however, the warrior also faced him with a dagger in his off-hand. The two now squared off to fight florentine, Callan with a heavier respect for Robalt and Robalt with a growing anxiety at the tricks he knew the rogue carried. He was holding back... he knew it. Callan would not be so easy a battle. It did not take long for the assassin to prove him wrong. Once more, the two flew together, dust beginning to swirl around them in all the chaos. Each squinted, eyes stinging, dirt clinging to their faces, but neither would allow this minor inconvenience to upset them. They continued to dart in and out, blades constantly clanging. Suddenly, however, Callan pulled something expectedly unexpected. Instead of parrying Robalt's strikes, he shoved one aside, taking a shallow wound on his arm from the other as he moved in close to the warrior. Robalt, unable to parry at such close distance, could only gape in surprise as Callan's fist snapped up the warrior's temple. He gasped and staggered back a few steps, vision momentarily blurring. Callan took this chance, both blades slicing in to finish his foe. Much to Callan's surprise, the clash and jar of steel met each of his attacks. Robalt was an experienced and challenging warrior; it would take more than a simple cuff on the head to throw him off. Now Robalt took the offensive, coming in fast and hard against the assassin. Callan gritted his teeth, blocking each strike more out of instinct and reflex than actual thought. Robalt continued to press on, forcing Callan back a few steps with his sheer ferocity, until even the experienced rogue was hard-put to deflect his attacks. Robalt lunged in powerfully, however, forcing the two into a lock of weapons, each glaring at the other with seething hatred. Callan smothered a grimace, however, feeling Robalt's sheer force press down over him. He knew the man had him beat when it came to pure strength. He was no weakling, but Robalt had a considerable amount of strength behind that broad chest and those sleek arms. So, the rogue took matters into his own hands. He suddenly dropped to one knee and slid out of the lock, as though he had lost, only to use the ground as his momentum to spring past Robalt as the elf stumbling forward with the sudden lack of resistance on his blades. Whirling about, Callan's dagger hilt snapped to the same spot where he had punched Robalt earlier. With a gasp, Robalt stumbled to one knee, himself, bright balls of light dancing before him. He heard the puff of powder behind him as Callan tossed down a handful of smoke, seeming to simply disappear. He also vaguely caught the sound of a sword being picked up from the dirt a few yards away, before any sound of the rogue faded away completely. With a grimace, Robalt got back to his feet, sheathing his dagger. He brought that hand up to his temple, steadying himself carefully. That crack would leave a nice bruise, and he would possibly need to see a healer. The elf spat a curse as his rapier also slid back into its scabbard, disgusted at his own ignorance. He had allowed Callan a shot he should have ever been granted. The warrior merely padded his cat-like way back towards Sentinel Hill, however, refusing to focus on it now. He would have much to think on later, once his head stopped pounding. Callan slid back into the cool shadows of the abandoned Deadmines entrance, icy glaze suddenly burning. As always, his encounter with Robalt had ended in frustration. Neither of the pair ever seemed to come out to his advantage with the other was involved. The assassin sank onto an old sack of grain, muttering darkly under his breath. He would just have to make certain that next time they would meet would be on Callan's terms, when he already had the upper hand. He heaved a sigh, pulling out his blade to clean it off. Yes, so many complications had come up lately. But Callan had never had much of an issue with elimination complications. ---- Omehn Bloodthorne was not skilled at life amongst people. He did not carry the charisma or social skills necessary to have a light-hearted chat, nor was he comfortable in even the smallest of crowds. The hunter, if anything, was known only for his anti-social nature, though none truly understood the reason behind it. Yet if there was one thing that Omehn was good at, it was tracking. He knelt upon the dusty, scorching ground of Westfall, his emerald eyes--touched by flecks of amber--roving over a single indentation. It was barely noticable--just the toe of a boot. Surely, any ordinary creature would have overlooked such a thing. However, Omehn was no ordinary creature... The lycanthrope's nose flared, taking in the scents on the air around him. He gave a grim smile, nodding in satisfaction. The boot print was, indeed, made by Callan. And, considering the stress on his toe rather than his heel, he had probably been keeping his steps quiet when the thing was made. The track was also unsettlingly fresh. Once more, Omehn allowed his nose to quiver, attempting to find the direction his quarry had gone. Tora's growl was the only warning he got, as the blonde assassin seemed to melt from the shadows a few yards away. Immediately Omehn was on his feet, an arrow nocked and drawn as he leveled his bow at the man. Callan only gave an amused smile as he eyed the weapon, leaning casually against the tree he had used for cover. The snow leopard gave another low snarl, moving to Omehn's side. "You're a brave one, Mutt," the assassin chuckled, even as he straightened to saunter his way over. Omehn gave his own low snarl--not much different from the feline's--and bared sharp, thickening fangs. Callan only laughed in response and moved closer, casually brushing the tip of the lycanthrope's arrow aside. "Or perhaps just very foolish. To try and track me alone. I thought canines had more common sense than that." Omehn slowly lowered his bow--it was virtually useless at this close distance--to squarely meet the man's icy blue eyes. Tora hissed, her fur bristling, even as she stalked in front of her companion protectively. Callan eyed the feline in obvious amusement. "I would not endanger the others by having them help me track you, and they would only get in the way," Omehn growled, his pupils seeming to expand. Callan smirked, reaching down a calloused hand to pat Tora. The leopard snarled and swung a paw at his hand, though it was out of her reach before her claws latched onto anything. Omehn bared his fangs in disgust once more, hands traveling for the swords belted at his waist. "Well, I do have to admit that you're a bit too talented at tracking... too talented for me to allow you to run off from this alive. So, we might as well get this over with." The assassin easily slid his Cruel Barbs from their sheaths, gaze flicking over the elf before him. Now... he knew Omehn was a lycanthrope... but he only shrugged this information off, circling his opponent. With a quick word, the ranger sent Tora off to the side, the snow leopard padding about to wait for an opportunity. Callan only smiled, even as Omehn's swords snapped out. The two dove at each other at the same moment, Callan's blades immediately taking the lead, as Omehn fought to hold him off. He was a good tracker, yes, and astounding with a bow, but melee combat was not his strong point. Not to mention Callan's blinding speed and deadly blows were a difficult match to the most impressive and agile of men. Callan only gave a slight smirk as he continued to keep the ranger off-balance, intentionally dulling his strikes in order to play with his newest victim. He would slide a blade in once in a while, scoring minor cuts and scratches on the elf, though he never truly did any damage. It was about then that Tora joined the battle. The assassin cursed as 600 pounds of snow leopard barreled into him from behind, sending him smashing into Omehn and all three of them to ground in one great, rolling ball of chaos. Omehn dropped his blades as he fell, fearing that he would somehow injure his companion in the jumble. Callan, however, deftly rolled about, his the hilt of his blade cracking against Tora's skull. With a yowl, the snow leopard was down and out. Omehn's roar of sheer fury alerted the assassin to the mistake he had just made. Callan found himself flying through the air, to land with a harsh thud on the earth several feet away. His impact sent up a sudden burst of dust, even as the enraged lycanthrope leapt to his feet--which suddenly were beginning to resemble paws. The already lanky elf was beginning to grow, shooting up at least a foot in height, even as power ripped through his muscles. His nails hardened and curved into wicked claws, his fangs poking out from a protruding muzzle. His ears shortened and thickened into those of a canine, even as deep black fur began to sprout across his form like some strange disease. Finally, a tail lashed out behind him, as he turned his gaze onto the assassin. There, before Callan, stood a fully-changed lycanthrope of black fur, with a reddish tip to his tail and the same colouration upon his chest. Finally, a jagged crimson mask tore across his eyes, completing the horror that was Omehn Bloodthorne. Callan could only stand and gape for a few moments, weapons limp at his sides. Yes, he knew that the ranger was a werewolf. But he had not imagined anything like the killing machine that stood before him now, snarling at the suddenly puny man. The assassin was forced out of his stupor as Omehn's claws ripped across his face, sending him reeling. He staggered back several steps with a sharp cry of pain, bent double for a moment. He was lucky he had not lost an eye... He brought his weapons to bear, then, darting in and slashing at the wolf. Omehn took each and every hit without flinching, until one digited paw snapped out to grasp the blade of a Cruel Barb. It cut deep into the pads there, sending blood flowing down the weapon, though the lycanthrope seemed unfazed. With a quick wrench, he snapped the weapon in half. Perhaps it was then that the assassin realized he was outmatched. He scrambled into his pack to produce a small ball of flash powder, chucking it to the ground and seeming to fade away. The wolf howled, head lashing this way and that, attempting to find the man by scent. But after a few moments, he knelt down beside the limp feline, his muzzle no longer curled into a snarl of hatred. He gave a soft whimper, tail brushing the ground as he checked Tora over. Much to his relief, she was breathing, though she had taken a nasty bruise on the back of her head. Omehn bent to pick up his fallen companion in still furry arms, getting to his paws once more. One ear flicked back, just in time to hear the silvered dagger cleave into his head. Callan watched from behind in satisfaction as the lycanthrope gave a final whimper of pain, just before he collapsed, Tora still cradled in his arms. The assassin chuckled as he padded over, watching the beast go through his final death throes. He waited until he was certain the former ranger would move no more, before he retrieved his dagger. The assassin sighed, swiping blood and gray matter from the weapon with distaste. He slid it back into his boot easily enough, eyeing the limp forms for a moment. He would have to take more care next time... it seemed these fools had a few tricks up their sleeves. With a quick, remorseful glance at his broken blade, Callan turned and sauntered off towards Moonbrook. He would just have to replace the weapon... The higher-ranking thieves occasionally carried one. And he would sorely miss his blade if he did not get another... Whistling a cheerful tune, he sauntered off, leaving the body of his latest victim in the dirt. Oh sure, it would be found. But only Omehn's companions--Chayton, Mavra, Fenris and the like--would be able to understand just what had happened. Anyone else would pass it off as some rogue werewolf that got what it deserved, or a particularly strange gnoll. The assassin smirked, checking off another name on his extensive list of potential threats. That list seemed to be getting shorter and shorter these days... Category:Warcraft Skye RP